“Come in, come in!” He waved Julia into the bare hallway.
She took a good look at him. His blazer and tennis top had been replaced by a stained T-shirt worn over a pair of gray sweatpants. He had called her at work an hour before, saying he had something she needed to see. He was so insistent that she hadn’t been able to say no, even though she had her hands full. She was starting to regret the decision.
Amante was sporting three days’ worth of stubble and had bags under his eyes, and there was something unsettled in his gaze. After closing and locking the door, he stood still for a few moments and seemed to be listening for sounds in the stairwell.
“How are you?” she said, obviously not expecting anything but the reply she received.
“Fine, thanks. Go in.”
He practically herded her into the kitchen ahead of him. There was a laptop on the marble counter, along with a printer that, judging by the box on the floor, was brand-new. An array of documents and enlarged photos was spread out around the computer. One of them was the photofit of David Sarac, another showed what must be the photograph from Sarac’s police ID, and a third Eskil’s grainy cell phone picture of Frank.
But it was the next photograph that made her gasp. The fourth picture showed a man in his thirties staring directly into the camera. She compared the photograph with the image from Eskil’s cell phone. The man was older now, but there was no doubt about it.
“Allow me to introduce Frank Hunter,” Amante said. His voice seemed more stable, almost the same as usual.
“H-How—” She broke off, realized she already knew the answer. “Kassab. Kassab told you who Frank was while you were putting his cuffs back on. That’s why you didn’t notice when he took the key from your pocket.”
Amante nodded glumly.
“Why didn’t you say anything about this to Kollander or Pärson?”
“I had no way of knowing if it was just a diversion, if Kassab was trying a double bluff. Besides, it’s our case, not Kollander and Pärson’s. It’s our responsibility to . . .” He fell silent, and his eyes began to flit about again.
“What exactly did Kassab tell you?”
The question seemed to make Amante focus. “He said Frank Hunter was a security consultant from the former Yugoslavia. He also said that Hunter had been out at Skarpö. That he was there to get David Sarac. Or, rather, to discover his secrets. That was more or less how Kassab put it. My Arabic is a bit rusty, and he was talking quietly and very fast.”
Julia studied the photograph again. Sharp features, watchful brown eyes, dark hair cut in a military style. If you compared him with the photograph on Sarac’s police ID, it was clear that Eskil had been right: it was easy to mistake Frank Hunter for a cop.
“Where did you get this picture of Hunter? It’s not a passport photograph, is it?”
Amante shook his head.
“It took quite a bit of work, but the way things are right now, I’ve had some time on my hands. I couldn’t find Frank Hunter in our databases: no criminal record, never been suspected of anything. So I checked with my former employers, Europol. Nothing there either. But then I remembered what Kassab said about the former Yugoslavia. So I got one of my contacts in The Hague to go up to the ICTY, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, and see if there was anything in their records.”
“And he could do that, just like that?” Julia already knew the answer. But one bribe more or less hardly made any difference anymore.
Amante pretended not to have heard. “That photograph was taken six years ago when Frank Hunter was given a temporary pass as an independent contractor. Employing people like him isn’t that unusual, not in countries where the local police are weak or less than willing to cooperate. My contact managed to get hold of the invoices from the company Hunter worked for.”
“Called?”
“Bloodhound Incorporated. But precisely what the company or Hunter were doing for the ICTY is strictly confidential. In total they invoiced for about three hundred thousand euros, so presumably they were supplying some fairly advanced services.”
“I’m guessing you’ve googled them.” Julia nodded toward the laptop.
“Of course. Bloodhound is registered in Malta. According to its website, the company offers security solutions and consultancy. I tried calling and reached an answering service. Quarter of an hour after I left a message with the receptionist, a guy called me back to see what I wanted. When I asked for Frank Hunter, he started to interrogate me. Who I was, where I was calling from, what I wanted, and so on. His English was good, but I still got the impression that it wasn’t his mother tongue. He could have been Swedish, even. He seemed to be trying to figure out how I’d tracked Frank Hunter back to them. So I hung up.”
He scratched his stubble and appeared to be waiting for Julia to say something.
“Okay.” She dragged the word out to give herself time to think, to digest all the information Amante had thrown at her and test it against what they already knew. Even if his working methods were unorthodox, to put it mildly, it was impossible not to be impressed by what he had found out in such a short time. But there was still a long way to go.
“So this Frank Hunter could be our perpetrator?” She studied the photograph again, trying to sense whether that might be true. Had this man killed David Sarac, dismembered his body, and destroyed his face? She conjured up the image of Sarac and his shattered grin again. But he didn’t give her any help this time either.
“It’s not that much of a leap. Hunter was on a mission to get hold of Sarac and uncover some sort of secret as early as last Christmas. And now he’s succeeded.”
“Hmm.” Julia bit her top lip. “What I can’t quite make sense of is why Hunter would have waited two months before trying again. And how did he manage to get Sarac to agree to leave the nursing home to meet him? Sarac wasn’t stupid, so whatever bait Hunter was using, it must have been something important. Something that persuaded him that it wasn’t all a trap. And I’ve found out something else too. Sarac used his passport in Frankfurt the evening after he escaped. He must have come back for some reason. But if Hunter wanted to kill Sarac, why not do it as soon as he got out of the nursing home? There are tons of lakes up there in the forests. Places that are much better for dumping a body than a busy stretch of water in Lake Mälaren.”
“Who told you about the passport and Frankfurt?” Amante looked at Julia curiously, and she took her time considering how best to reply.
“You’re not the only person with contacts,” she said, attempting one of his secretive smiles.
Amante continued looking at her for a few moments. Then he nodded.
“You’re right. There are still a lot of the pieces missing from this puzzle. So if we sum up what we know so far, and leave Sarac and Hunter to one side for a moment . . .”
Amante held up his thumb, as if he was about to start counting.
“To start with, we’ve got a dismembered body that was dumped under the ice. The perpetrator went to great lengths to make both discovery and identification as hard as possible. But then those two guys went diving for their anchor and the body was found. Sheer luck on our part, and a serious bit of bad luck for the perpetrator.”
He added his forefinger.
“Then the perpetrator has more bad luck. The DNA test turns out to match a trace from Skarpö, which should set off all the alarms. But before anyone has time to react, the Security Police appear out of nowhere and take over both the investigation and the body.”
Middle finger.
“But the DNA match is pretty weak. Pärson and his boss lose interest and are happy to see the Security Police left holding the baby instead of Regional Crime. A transferred case doesn’t spoil the clearance rates, does it?”
Amante lowered his hand and shrugged.
“The body’s gone; the investigat
ion’s adrift somewhere in police bureaucracy. No one cares who the victim is, who killed him, or why. The perpetrator’s bad luck has suddenly, and coincidentally, turned into extremely good luck after all.”
He hunched over the papers spread out on the worktop. Stared at Hunter’s picture the way Julia had done shortly before. Then at the picture of Sarac.
“But you and I don’t believe in coincidence, do we?” she said.
Amante slowly shook his head. “I think the perpetrator may well be someone who can see what we’re doing. Possibly even someone with enough knowledge and contacts to make both the body and the case vanish, and with very good reason to make that happen. And for some reason I can’t quite explain, I don’t think Frank Hunter is our killer. Kassab didn’t say anything explicitly, but I still got the impression that he thinks so too.”
“You know how this sounds, don’t you? A conspiracy inside the police force, mysterious security companies, bodies disappearing. You just need a few men in dark raincoats watching your apartment and you can get the tinfoil out and start making yourself a hat.”
Amante’s cryptic smile was back.
“That was the old days. Why follow someone when all you have to do is keep an eye on their cell phones? We use official police phones and SIM cards; we use the wireless network at headquarters whenever the software needs updating. Sneaking in an invisible app that would regularly pinpoint our whereabouts can hardly be that difficult. At least, not for someone with the sort of contacts we’re talking about.”
Julia held her hands out as if to say that she wasn’t about to argue.
“So, what happens now? Pärson’s keeping me busy with the Abu Hamsa investigation, and you’re suspended. Besides, as we keep saying, we haven’t even got a case.”
“Well, I can always carry on independently. I haven’t got anything else to do. I’ll do a bit of private detective work, now that I’ve gone to the trouble of making myself a tinfoil hat.”
Julia couldn’t help smiling.
“Right now I’m trying to find out if Bloodhound is linked to any companies in Sweden,” Amante went on. “Frank Hunter, or whatever his real name is, must have been lying low after Skarpö. He must have had a hiding place to recharge his batteries while he figured out his next move. Who knows, that could even have been where he and Sarac met. If I can find that address, we’ll be another step ahead.”
Another step closer to our perpetrator, Julia thought.
When she stepped out of Amante’s front door shortly afterward, she heard the sound of an engine starting. She took a couple of steps out into the street and just caught sight of a dark-colored car driving off at full speed. For a brief moment she wished she’d left her cell phone in the office. Then she thrust the thought aside. One tinfoil hat in this investigation was enough.
Eighteen
Atif is sitting in a small, hot interview room. He’s being held down by hand and ankle cuffs. His breathing is labored. Sweat is running down his temples and the back of his neck. His chest and back are bare. He licks some salt from his beard. It feels softer than usual. Almost like fur.
The lead interviewer comes in. It’s not Vaseline, or the blonde. In fact it isn’t any of the many cops he’s met over the years. No, the man who sits down on the chair opposite him is Joachim Gilsén. He sucks a little on his crowned teeth, makes a birdlike movement with his head, manages to make him feel uncomfortable instantly. Ashamed, angry. Something else he can’t identify.
“Why?” Gilsén says. “Why did you kill me?”
Atif has no intention of answering. He’s going to sit out his brain. Wait until it gets fed up and plays a different scenario. Or, even better, decides to settle into neutral and let him get the deep sleep he needs.
But suddenly he’s standing outside the room. Looking at himself through the mirrored glass.
“You were dead anyway,” his dream self says inside the interview room. “You only had another hour or so left.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because Rosco told me out in the exercise yard. They came just before midnight. Three of them, maybe more. I heard them stick a wedge under my door. As a precaution in case I didn’t keep my side of the bargain. Then they opened the door to your cell.”
“By which time I was already dead,” Gilsén whines. “Because you murdered me, stole my secret. Hanged me from the bars like some fucking suicide.”
“I had to make it look like suicide: I was afraid they wouldn’t fall for it. I thought they’d figure out what I’d done and come into my cell. When they removed the wedge, I was standing next to the door. Ready to fight for my life.”
“But no one came.”
His dream self shakes his head. His face slowly cracks into a smile, baring his teeth in a leer that looks more bestial than human.
Then he’s back in the room. Back inside his body. The smell in there overwhelms him, making his nostrils flare. A smell of fear, of prey.
“Y-You promised . . . ” Gilsén whimpers. He stands up and walks quickly toward the door. But the room has changed: suddenly it’s a rectangular little box, with no doors, no one-way mirror.
Gilsén bangs on the wall where the door was before, screaming for help, and waves at the camera in the corner of the box. But no one comes.
Atif gets to his feet, and the shackles holding his arms and legs pull tight, contorting his body into an unnatural upright pose. He roars out loud: humiliation, impotence, rage, and a desire for vengeance.
Only one way out, Amu, Tindra’s voice whispers inside his head while Gilsén beats his fists on the wall until they bleed.
Only.
One.
Way.
Out.
His body contorts, changes. The shackles around his arms and legs loosen and fall to the floor. He howls again, and his voice becomes a bellow that merges with Gilsén’s shrill screaming, which sounds like the shrieking brakes of a bus. Or the scream of a little girl running for her life.
“Atif.”
Someone is pulling at him. He turns and lashes out with one arm. Hits something with the back of his hand. A cry of pain, for real.
The living room sofa. Natalie was sitting a meter or so away, with one hand over her cheek. The cocky look in her eyes was gone, replaced by something he didn’t like.
“Sorry,” he managed to say. “I was dreaming . . .”
She lowered her hand. Her cheek was red, her eye half-closed. He got to his feet and pulled his clothes on. His body felt easier now, he was getting better.
“I’m really sorry,” he muttered. “Just give me ten minutes, then I’ll get out of here.”
He struggled with one sock. His foot was less swollen now. His wounded head was no longer thudding so badly; it felt almost okay. Natalie was still glaring at him.
“And where were you thinking of going?”
“I’ve got a relative in Södertälje who’ll put me up.”
“Okay, so you swap my sofa for a different one. What then?”
“Sort out fake passports. Get my family out.”
“And how are you planning to go about that? Do you think the police watching them are likely to overlook a bearded, two-meter-tall man missing half an ear?”
He didn’t answer, just pulled his trousers on and began to fold the duvet and damp sheet. Getting Tindra and Cassandra out was the big challenge. If everything had gone according to plan, he’d have found a solution by now, instead of lying here in fevered delirium. Every hour that passed was an hour closer to the moment when the cops gave up and abandoned his family to the people hunting him.
“I’ll think of something.” He made himself look at her. Her cheek was less red now. Her eye looked almost normal. “Thanks for everything you’ve done, Natalie. I’ll transfer the money as soon as I can. Within a couple of weeks at most. Look, I really am sorry abo
ut—”
“Sit down!” She pointed at the sofa.
He didn’t move.
“Sit down, Atif,” she repeated in a slightly gentler voice. “You’re in no state to leave, not yet.” She rubbed her cheek. “Besides, you still can’t do a decent bitch slap. Let me know if you’d like a lesson.”
She held his gaze until he returned her smile. Then looked at her watch.
“I need to get to work now. There’s breakfast in the kitchen.”
She took a couple of steps toward the door, then stopped.
“By the way, have you heard anything about David Sarac?”
“Not directly.” He paused before replying. Not much, but enough for her to notice. “Why?”
“Someone showed up at work the other day. A cop, or rather a civilian investigator called—”
“Amante.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“Because he and his partner paid me a visit too. They’re investigating a dismembered body. Showed me a photograph.”
“Frank,” she said. “Do you know who he is?”
Atif nodded. “He employed me to kill a guy last winter.”
“Who?”
Atif grimaced. “You already know who.”
“Sarac?”
Atif nodded.
“So you think . . .” She seemed to have trouble getting the words out.
“I think someone’s been more successful this time.”
• • •
Natalie had to wait until the day was almost over before one of the examination rooms was free. She needed somewhere quiet to make the call from, without any distractions or risk of being overheard. The medical center’s soundproof examination rooms were perfect in that respect. Just as she was about to sneak off, the physiotherapist with the dimples appeared. He lolled on her reception desk wanting to chat. Normally she would have liked that—would even have thought it cute. But not today. She didn’t have time for that sort of distraction, and after a couple of minutes she was obliged to come up with an excuse to get away.
Ultimatum Page 17